A Villain's Tale
by EmKayMadeley
Summary: After playing Evil Genius, I was insprired to write a story from the villain's perspective. Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

**A Villain's Tale**

**Chapter One - Past Prejudice**

Sam Guldorn kicked moodily at the ground as he strolled briskly around the school field. Around him, he could hear the happy shouts and yells of his classmates, and the dull thud of a football being kicked around. He ran a pale, spidery hand absent-mindedly through his dark, unkempt hair, his watery eyes itching from extensive computer use. He smiled slightly, thinking of his friends, still inside, eyes glued to their monitors. At least he had the sense to go outside every now and again. Though, to be honest, coming outside often made him feel worse. He looked up at the happy teenagers, chatting and laughing, having the time of their lives. He turned away quickly, as if burned at their sight.

He briefly considered going over to join one of the groups. He was pretty sure he could get on with some of them. Sure, he may have to just sit there quietly, but he had nothing better to do. He started towards one of the groups, hitching a smile on his pale features.

The football came out of nowhere and hit him square in the back of the head. He stumbled forwards, hearing harsh laughter coming from behind him. He straightened, acting as if nothing was wrong, feeling the mud dribbling down the back of his neck.

"Oi, geeky!" yelled a voice at him. He kept walking, ignoring the fast approaching sniggers.

He heard heavy footsteps approaching, and his way was blocked by Leon, the school bully and head chav of his "Crew."

He towered over Sam, grinning thickly. He was at least a head taller, and a lot wider than Sam. His hands were placed confidently on his hips, his chunky arms covered by a White Nike hoodie, worn "rebelliously" over his school shirt. Sam grimaced, and tried to get past.

"Whoa, where you goin', geeky?" he said, holding out one of his arms to block his path. Sam could hear Leon's crew approaching, encircling him, and tried to push his way out, tired of this routine.

Leon laughed nastily, and pushed him back in the circle. Sam stumbled, and he laughed even harder, his voice joined by his cronies. Leon pushed him again, and this time Sam stumbled to the ground, his too-large school shoes slipping on the muddy ground. He reached out instinctively with one of his hands, and caught hold of one of the smaller ones, gripping him by the front of his shirt. He snarled at the struggling youngster: "You think this is funny, do you?" Tears of anger and rage leaked down his cheeks as he shook the youngster, his other hand struggling to keep him upright.

The youngster abruptly stopped laughing, and broke Sam's grip. He ran off, crying loudly.

Sam got steadily to his feet, and realised the circle had gone deathly silent. The laughter was gone from Leon's face, replaced by anger. He advanced menacingly on Sam. "That was my brother Brad. What d'you go threatening him for?"

"I'm sorry," said Sam, and meant it. He watched him run towards the school, wailing.

Leon hit him. Sam went down, hard. He could feel the wet mud pressing against the back of his shirt, and the warm blood on his face. He tried to get to his feet, but Leon lashed out with a booted foot, catching him in the ribs. Winded, Sam lay still, not wanting to provoke any more violence, and too weak to move even if he wanted to.

Satisfied, Leon and his gang headed back for the school. Sam waited until he could no longer hear their heavy footsteps, and then got gingerly to his feet. He touched his face with one grimy hand, feeling the blood leaking out of his nose. He dug with his other hand into a pocket, finding a handkerchief, which he used to stem the flow. He stumbled towards the school, glancing at his watch.

He looked again, thinking his eyes were deceiving him. Break had been over a full ten minutes ago! The dull pain in his nose and ribs seemed to fade as a new emotion gripped him: panic. He stumbled forwards a bit faster, wondering vaguely if his leg was broken. It certainly felt like it.

He neared the dull, familiar school buildings, and stumbled on the concrete, falling forwards again. He righted himself clumsily, and wondered cynically if this day could get any worse.

"GULDORN!!!"

Cursing under his breath, he turned towards to the source of the voice, which confirmed his cynical theory with flying colours.

Mr. Barker, disciplinarian and Head of Year 8, held in a mixture of respect and fear by most pupils, marched purposefully across the playground, his eyes flashing with fury. As usual, he wore a dark suit, ill-fitting over his muscular frame. Following in his wake was Brad, no longer crying, but looking miserable nonetheless.

Sam quickly stood up straight, trying to look as dignified as possible, despite his muddy clothes and bleeding nose.

"Did you attack this boy?" growled Mr. Barker, his voice sounding like an oncoming thunderstorm.

"Please, sir…I can explain…" began Sam meekly.

"I don't want to hear your excuses, boy!" spat Mr. Barker, leaning forwards and regarding Sam's appearance with contempt, as though Sam had purposefully bloodied and muddied himself to aggravate him.

"He did, sir!" piped up Brad, his voice whiny and persistent.

"Well…I did, yes…but…" sputtered Sam, looking from face to face.

"So, you did!" yelled Mr. Barker. "You launched an unprovoked attack on a first year!"

"Yes…" said Sam, through gritted teeth. "But…"

"I don't want to hear any more of your snivelling excuses, Guldorn!!" said Mr. Barker, straightening up, the contempt in his voice multiplying. "I will expect you in detention, after school, all this week!"

"But, sir…it wasn't…"

"Get out of my sight!" yelled Mr. Barker. "And get yourself cleaned up! I don't want you trailing mud around the school!" With that, he turned and stormed back inside, accompanied by Brad, who turned just before he went inside, shooting Sam a look of triumph.

Sam sighed, a dozen retorts dying in his mouth. Arguing with Mr. Barker would get him nowhere, and he didn't fancy any more detention than he already had.

He limped towards the school, as the first spots of rain began to fall. He sighed, and made for one of the doors into the school. He pushed it with his left hand, his right hand still dabbing at his nose. It didn't budge.

He limped over to the next one, and encountered a similar problem. The rain was beginning to beat down hard now, soaking his already muddy uniform further.

Giving up, he stumbled over to a bench under an overhanging roof, and sat down heavily, his mind full of anger and ideas for revenge.

On that day, Sam Guldorn died, and Lord Magnus was born.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 - Evil Intentions**

Magnus woke up, clearing his head of the still vivid images. He sat up slightly, listening to the sound of waves crashing against the rocks outside the window. He crawled across to the large window, drawing back the dark blue curtains, squinting slightly as the bright sunlight lit up his pale features. He stumbled off the large bed, pulling on his trademark dark red robes, looking at the clock built into the Sour Dream Generator, still smoking and bleeping from its recent activity.

He walked across the door out of his relatively plain chambers. He composed himself slightly, and then reached out with a gloved hand, pulling open the heavy door.

He was instantly assaulted by a barrage of noise from downstairs. He stumbled slightly backwards from the blast, and then strutted down the stairs.

He stopped at the bottom of the stairs. The source of the noise was immediately apparent.

A large plasma TV dominated one of the walls, which was alive with explosions and blood. Sitting across from it, surrounded by empty pizza boxes and half-drunk fizzy drinks, lounged Seth Brooks, gripping a controller in one pale hand, glass of milk in the other. He looked up as Magnus approached.

"Hey, Sam!" he said, cheerfully, putting down his milk and flicking his long fringe out of his eyes.

"Morning," said Magnus, frowning. Out of all his followers, Seth was the only one who called him by his real name. To be honest, Magnus often wondered what he was doing here at all, his cheerful attitude and baggy clothes distinctly out of place in his evil lair.

Seth nodded, still grinning, and turned his attention back to the plasma screen, resuming his orgy of death and destruction. Magnus watched for a couple of seconds, the scenes of mutilation and maiming was oddly soothing…

"Mornin,' boss," said a deep voice nearby.

Magnus turned to see Quentin stride into the room. He was a tall, muscular man, dressed in an armoured version of the dark purple outfit his regular henchmen wore. This threatening effect was somewhat ruined by the yellow flowery apron and the brush clutched in one dinner plate sized hand.

"Morning Quentin," said Magnus, and clapped his gloved hands together. "Right, I'm gonna go see what my underlings and bootlicks are up to. Toodles!"

And with that, he crossed over to the door, which slid open as he approached. It slid shut behind him, cutting off the noises of terror and torture.

He was standing in the main, spacious corridor of his evil lair. He watched his henchmen, wearing identical uniforms of dark purple and black, marching to their destinations with straight backed purpose.

He grinned, and then began to walk down the corridor, hands clasped behind his back. His henchmen stopped and saluted as he past, and he nodded to each in turn. He reached the door marked "Training Room" and strode inside.

As soon as he was gone, his henchmen all exhaled. Several began to smoke, leaning against the walls. Others stopped and chatted, all formality and purpose forgotten. One of the henchmen produced a guitar from nowhere, and his peers began to dance to the music.

Magnus, completely unaware of the disorder happening several feet away, walked across the room, stopping to regard various henchmen drilling with heavy machine guns, swords, and grenades. He was pleased with what he saw.

At the far end of the room, his henchmen combat-trainer, Ethan Hellmann, was sparring with katana samurai swords against a much larger henchman. They circled around the mat, watching and judging each others actions. Hellman flourished his blade with ease, while his opponent clutched it awkwardly, probably more at ease with a heavy machine gun or rocket launcher.

Hellman smiled slightly, his scarred features distorting slightly. He lunged forward, brining his sword up for a thrust. His opponent brought his weapon down, knocking Hellman's blade away, but compromised his balance. Hellman's head crashed into his chest, knocking him down onto the mat. He got up slowly, raising his weapon awkwardly, breathing hard.

Hellman straightened up easily, gripping his sword in two hands. He broke suddenly into a sprint, swinging his blade around. The henchmen brought his own sword up to parry, but Hellman switched direction at the last second, dodging between the henchman's clumsy parry, and knocking him onto the mat with a well-placed blow from his armoured shoulder.

The henchman clambered slowly to his feet, furious now. He charged towards Hellman, who calmly stood his ground, raising his weapon once more. The henchmen struck again and again, but every blow was parried effortlessly. Breathing hard, he launched another assault, which was again thwarted by precise blows.

Hellman struck out once with a two handed blow. The exhausted henchman toppled backwards, and crawled from the mat. Hellman watched him go, his scarred face full of contempt.

Magnus applauded; his solitary clapping barely audible amid the explosions and the clash of weaponry. Hellman nodded once to him, sheathing his sword in one fluid move.

"I trust the training is going well?" asked Magnus, stepping towards Hellman, who was still watching the beaten henchman limp from the room.

"They are learning," he said, simply. His voice was cold and modulated, as though he was an emotionless fighting machine, which, Magnus reflected, wasn't too far from the truth.

"That's good," said Magnus, nodding, moving to stand next to Hellman, hands clasped behind his back, watching the various battles and training exercises with satisfaction. "They wouldn't be half as good as they are now without your teaching."

"Thank you," replied Hellman, bowing respectfully.

Magnus turned away, frowning. His attempts to find out more about Hellman's past were becoming increasingly fruitless. He was still slightly unnerved by the fact that he had not found Hellman, Hellman had found him. He also hadn't forgotten the fact that Hellman had easily incapacitated a dozen perimeter guards to enter the compound. Bare-handed.

"When will it happen?"

Magnus was abruptly brought back to the present, Hellman's voice slicing through his thoughts. "I beg your pardon?"

"You promised me an unending supply of obedient disciples, my lord. I am still waiting."

Magnus felt his breath catch in his throat. Hellman's contempt for those he could easily best in combat (which was most of humanity) was belied only by his unwavering loyalty. Though sometimes, Magnus did wonder…

"Soon, my friend," said Magnus, smiling, hoping his brief expression of panic hadn't been too obvious. "When the world is mine, I shall make good on my promise."

"When will that be?"

Magnus smiled slightly. It was like talking to Liviya.

"Very soon. My doomsday weaponry should be arriving soon, a matter of days to be precise."

Hellman nodded, satisfied with Magnus' response. "Very good, my lord. I shall resume training your henchmen."

"You do that," said Magnus, watching Hellman head towards a group of henchmen training with heavy machine guns. Magnus had designed the targets himself: they resembled several former class-mates and teachers.

Magnus watched for a bit, chuckling to himself, and then headed for the door, deciding to go and check on his chief interrogator.


End file.
